Lying In Bed

by Rose, M. J.

  “I would love for you to see the show, baby. Everyone’s coming in for it. Dad and Carla want us all to have dinner afterwards. Can’t you give it up? You’re going to love the show. Everyone is talking about it. It’s going to be the show. Uber show. What we do for art. You understand that, don’t you? A little sacrifice, but what price beauty? And it is beauty. Thrilling, fucking sexy beauty. Call me, doll.”

  I didn’t think. It wasn’t about logic or sanity. It wasn’t about reality or fantasy. The glass shattered against the phone as soon as it hit. Pieces scattered everywhere, appearing, in the darkened room, like stars splashing across a night sky.

  14

  I worked on the story all of Saturday, revising and editing it. I was done early that night and emailed it to the address that Gideon had given me. I didn’t check my email on Sunday morning. I’d slept late and had to rush to meet Grace at a flea market on West 26th street.

  It was our weekly ritual. I looked for scrap and ephemera to use in my collages, she searched for vintage costume jewelry, accessories and clothes.

  Some days I didn’t find anything. Others one or two items. She always found too much.

  That morning, every time I turned around there was something else to pore over. At one booth I found two dozen old erotic postcards from France. Sepia-toned and innocent in their nakedness, the women posed and flirted with the camera, their breasts bared but with silken fabrics hiding their privates. Some of them wore stockings and garters, others wore only high heels. They entreated the viewer to come a little closer and be delighted.

  I though of Cole’s nudes in relation to these. His were erotic, too, but raw and edgy. There was no charm to the photographs he took of naked women in the throes of passion. He was a voyeur; these photographers were lotharios. He took more than his models offered; these models offered more than the photographer could capture.

  I bought them and tucked them into my bag and found a long pair of silk gloves at the next booth. Cream colored and in excellent shape, I imagined them stuffed and positioned in one of my shadow boxes, the fingers beckoning.

  A bolt of violet tulle sat on another booth. It sparkled with tiny diamante flecks.

  I’d come up with a new idea for the boxes I was going to do based on Gideon’s stories. Teasing the viewer with the scenes inside. Arouse curiosity. Each would have curtains or drapes hanging over them, in different materials, but all transparent so that you had an idea of what was inside the box, but to really view it you would have to push apart the fabric. I wanted each to be its own secret. Worth studying, worth spending time with. But none of them clear at first viewing. Layered, complicated juxtapositions of images and objects that would suggest eroticism the same way that we perceive it in other people. Under the clothes, behind the eyes, in subtle gestures and unspoken words.

  I could imagine the collages, even picture how someone would inspect them - how he would push back the violet tulle to peek inside and be delighted with the gloved hand holding a tiny, naked, male doll that I found at yet another table at the market.

  “That fabric is amazing,” Grace said, coming up next to me and fingering it. “Do you have an idea of what you are going to do with it?”

  I told her about the boxes I was going to do based on Gideon’s stories as we walked around and inspected all the wares, pulling dresses off racks, inspecting their old handstiched labels, opening ancient Vuitton bags, fingering Hermes scarves, trying on faux gem rings, and Bakelite bracelets and holding extravagant pins up to our collars to see what kind of impact they’d make.

  The only item Grace never looked at was shoes. In the Jewish religion you never wore the shoes of the dead, lest you follow in their footsteps and since there was a good chance that most vintage shoes had belonged to someone now long gone, she avoided even being tempted by them.

  “What do you know about the woman Gideon Brown is sending the letters to?”

  “Not much, why?”

  Grace looked up from investigating a box of Chanel buttons that she’d found under a cashmere sweater that someone had left on the table. “I don’t know. I was wondering. That’s unusual isn’t it? That you don’t know anything?”

  Normally, I found out as much as I could about the recipient of the letters or stories. It was one way to make sure to please him. Or her. “Yes. It’s unusual. But he doesn’t want to talk about her.”

  “Any idea why?”

  I shook my head.

  A woman walked up to the table, maneuvered around us, and grabbed a pink sweater Grace hadn’t looked twice at.

  “You’re usually better than that at getting information out of your clients.”

  “Yeah… I am… so I don’t know why I couldn’t do any better this time. He’s complicated, Grace. I’d say he makes me nervous but that wouldn’t be the right word.”

  “He gets to you.”

  “What?”

  “You’re interested in him. He’s getting under your skin. In your head.”

  “No, he doesn’t, he–”

  She put her arm though my arm, the way I’d seen my grandmother walk with her friends. “Come on, let’s get out of here and go get brunch. How about the Empire Diner? You’re not going to want to hear what I have to say, and if I tell you here it will be too easy for you to walk off instead of hearing me out.”

  “Have I ever done that in my life?”

  “No, but I’ve never pushed you as far as I’m prepared to push you now,” and then she grinned. Like a medieval executioner about to behead one of Henry’s wives.

  15.

  “You’re not connected to your own feelings, Marlowe. You haven’t been for a long time,” Grace said, over her lox, eggs, and onions.

  “I know you think you have a right to do this, but I don’t understand why you think you have that right.” My omelet was undercooked. I pushed it away, searched for and caught the eye of the waiter, who surprisingly came over right away. Grace waited until I’d explained what was wrong with the eggs and the waiter had taken them back before she continued.

  “I think I have a right to do this because I care about you.”

  “No. If you cared about me you wouldn’t want to upset me.”

  “No, because I care about you I want to point out some things you’re doing that are ensuring your unhappiness.”

  I sighed. “Okay, Grace, preach to me,” I was annoyed. She knew it. But we were close and honest with each other. She needed to have this conversation with me as much as I needed to let her know it wasn’t welcome.

  “You look at everything so closely. Objects, colors, swatches of fabric, images… everything but your own life. And by doing that you aren’t seeing what’s really there. You are missing signals that might lead you forward… that might help you figure out what you really want… what might really make you happy. Or, if not happy then at least satisfied.” She picked up her fork and took another bite of her eggs. The waiter appeared and returned my now golden browned mushroom and Swiss cheese omelet.

  I took a bite and expected her to continue talking. She didn’t.

  “That’s it?” I asked finally. “No more? Short rant for you.”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’re not going to explain why I need to listen to you, why I need to change my way of dealing with my reality? You’re not going to give me seven examples of situations that I–”

  She interrupted. “No. I’m your friend, not your mother. Or your therapist.”

  “Or my physic?”

  She grinned. “I know better than to go there with you. You and your skepticism. This isn’t about that. I’m not talking about how the stars are lined up or the I Ching or what I see when I read your Tarot cards.”

  “You don’t read my Tarot cards. I’ve never let you do that with me.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t read them without you.”

  “Don’t tell me–”

  Her smile gave her away – she was teasing. “No. I can’t read your card
s without you being involved.”

  “So this is not your occult position? No witchcraft? No second sight?”

  “I don’t need to look that hard, sweetie. You’re missing your own clues. We all give ourselves clues. We sense things about people we meet. We know better than we give ourselves credit for. You ignoring those intuitions doesn’t make any sense. It’s like turning away a life preserver when you are drowning. Those moments of insight we all have can give us the edge that helps us live more fulfilled lives. But you’re doing the opposite. You’re looking away from every clue and hint. You’ve got blinders on about your own life.” She put down her fork, which she’d been using to reinforce the points she was making. “I’m finished.”

  “With the eggs or the lecture?”

  “With both.” She pushed away the plate. “No, I’m not.”

  “Not finished with the eggs or the lecture?”

  “It’s not a random conversation we’re having here–”

  “It’s not even a conversation, Grace. It’s your podium and your lecture.”

  She looked at me askance and then continued: “There’s something about this man that you need to pay attention to. Him coming into your life right now. It’s not an accident. You’re reacting to him differently. You have to figure out why. Why him? Why now?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No? That’s okay. You don’t need to understand. You need to be aware. To be open. That’s all I’m asking you to do. To take a look at the things you are feeling. To the things you aren’t feeling. To look hard at the work you’re doing and look for what’s under the surface, for what’s brewing.”

  “You’re making it sound like sorcery again.”

  “No. You’re listening to it like it’s sorcery. You don’t want to hear what I’m saying, do you?”

  “What you are saying sounds like something a medium would tell a patient. Or a fairy godmother would whisper to her charge. You except me to start believing in your magic because you’re telling me to?”

  “Well, isn’t there magic to how we all relate to each other and what we can give each other?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “No, but it’s what I meant.”

  16.

  Two days later, on Tuesday morning, I took a subway uptown and, because I was early, got out on 72nd street, walking west to Fifth avenue and then heading north.

  On my left, Central Park was finally all green, and in bloom with so many flowers and blossoming trees they perfumed the air despite the exhaust and fumes from the cars and buses that crowded the street.

  Of course I knew I was going to meet Gideon, but when I saw him from a block away, standing on the top of the stone steps, immobile, his hair blowing in the May breeze, I felt a sweep of shock chill me.

  It was visceral - my body reacting to the sight of him - sending messages to my nerve endings. Zinging me. Buffeting me. Pushing me to rush towards him. To breathe faster. To swallow larger gulps of air. To be aware of how my breasts felt with the soft fabric of my silk camisole rubbing against them. How my ankles felt cooler where the air hit them. I felt the fabric of my jeans on my hipbones: slightly rough and heavy compared to my silky underwear. I felt the back of my neck, realizing it was warm as if I’d been out in the sun. But I hadn’t. The side of the street I was walking on was in heavy shade from the trees lining the avenue.

  The sensations were uncomfortable and surprising enough to make me consciously shift focus off the man waiting for me and instead onto where we were going.

  The Metropolitan Museum is an imposing structure. Larger and more impressive than any other museum I’ve ever visited except for the Louvre in Paris. But I love the Met more because it’s my hometown museum. An edifice that others find cold, and a layout that others find unnavigable, is, to me, neither. Rather, I find it a comforting palace where I have always gone for inspiration, education, to be awed and to be consoled.

  I never visited the Met with other people. Looking at art is something I need to be alone to do. To walk at my own pace. To rush by something that has no interest and dwell - for what might be an obscenely long time to someone else - in front of a painting, vase or sculpture that moves me.

  But this was where I had told Gideon to meet me.

  “It’s this way,” I said to Gideon as I led him through the grand and formal lobby of the Metropolitan Museum, looking as I always did at the enormous bouquets of flowers flanking the staircase. That day they were towering apple blossoms, and I silently thanked the benefactress who had left an endowment so that those two giant vases would always be filled with fresh flowers.

  I was a member, so we didn’t have to pay for tickets, just collect the small buttons that permitted us entry.

  Inside the front hall, the staircase ahead, I led Gideon to the left. Passing quickly through galleries of ancient middle-eastern jewelry, we entered the medieval church - or at least that was what I’d always called the high-ceilinged, darkened room that housed dozens of medieval church sculptures and elaborate gates aquired from a cathedral in Spain.

  We walked in silence. Spending so much time in the museum on my own, it was natural not to speak in much the same way that one keeps reverentially silent in a library or house of worship. I don’t know if Gideon felt it too or if he was respectful of my quietude. I didn’t ask.

  Continuing on, we took another right and went through two rooms of more church artifacts. Ahead was the brightly lit Knights and Armor exhibition hall. This wasn’t an area of the museum that’d I’d visited in years and I wasn’t sure that what I wanted to show Gideon was even mounted there. At the entrance to the gallery of gleaming silver men sitting atop their mounted steeds, I turned left into an almost hidden hallway. Even though the museum was crowded, this corner was empty.

  We were in a small anteroom. Before us was a palatial bedroom. In the center was a bed covered with ancient red silk damask. Its headboard rose up, ornate and intricate, carved by artisans hundreds of years before.

  It was a luxurious bed. A bed to crawl into and stay for days. You could live in that bed, have your food brought to you there. Get drunk on sweet wine, eat figs and fresh strawberries, take naps, make love, wake up, sip hot melted chocolate out of gold demitasse cups. It was a bed that you came to dressed in peignoirs and silk robes that were handmade with rolled edges. A bed that invited you to stay as long as you wanted, that promised you there was no better place to be; a bed where you created a world away from the world of hard edges and harsh lights. Where there was nothing but physical pleasure or sweet slumber. Your head would lay against those pillows and there would be nothing more important than feeling someone’s lips on yours.

  “I always wanted to hide out in the ladies room at closing time, so that I could sneak in here and sleep in this bed for one night,” I said.

  “I can see you doing that,” he laughed.

  That surprised me. It meant he’d spent time forming an impression of me. But what puzzled me even more than that was that I hadn’t done the same. Since the day we’d spent at the beach I’d avoided thinking about him. Even focusing on the project made me slightly nervous. I’d been worried if I thought about it too much, or thought about Gideon at all, I might change my mind and pass up the job.

  To the right of the bed was a window so well lit by an artificial light source that you were sure if you walked over to it, you’d be able to see beyond it to the street below. Not the New York City street, but the Italian passageway from another century.

  To the left of the bed was a hanging gilt-framed, spotted mirror, the mercury so old it had begun to flake off. The way it was positioned, I could see a reflection of not just the bed and the rest of the room, but Gideon and I, standing there.

  What would anyone think if they saw us there?

  I was curious. What image did we present? Did I present. Who was inside of the shell that was reflected in the ancient mirror? How much about me was revealed to anyone looking? How mu
ch of our deeper selves are expressed in the lines in our foreheads or the light in our eyes?

  I’ve always believed we can hide who we are when we need to. That anyone looking at my mother’s photographs of me, or Cole’s photos of me, would not know me any better for having seen the portraits. I would remain unknown to them.

  But suddenly I wasn’t sure.

  And that made me concerned.

  Gideon’s eyes moved from the bed to the mirror to the ceiling. A small contented sigh escaped his lips.

  I craned my neck, too. I had been here so long ago that it was like seeing the carving for the first time. There were dozens and dozens of fat cherubs flying around the room. The three-dimensional putti, celebrating the idea of both sacred and profane love were fat and joyful.

  Behind us, a mother and a child walked in, hand in hand. The mother told the child to look up, and the little girl’s mouth opened. “Oh mommy,” she said. “I never saw so many babies without any diapers before.”

  I smiled at the woman, who was clearly proud of her little darling’s ability to be so observant. Gideon was still enthralled by the ceiling and seemed to be studying it intensely.

  After another minute or two, the pair left and we were alone again.

  I stole a glance back at the mirror and watched the two of us, him looking up, me looking ahead. We were side by side, his dark to my light, his tall to my lack of height.

  “Can you imagine making love in this room?” he asked without turning to me, eyes still on the sculptured cherubs.

  I didn’t answer him. I’d noticed a placard to my right and chose that moment to start to read it. The room, it said, had come from a sixteenth century palazzo in Venice. Then there was a short history about the family who owned the palazzo and the customs of the day: enough to make anyone who bothered to read it, feel that they were now duly informed.

  “In the mirror,” I began almost without realizing that I had indeed begun, “he would undress her in the mirror. He would watch her watching herself as she began to take off her clothes, while the sun set beyond the window, casting both of them in a warm orange glow.”